


Do pilots dream of electric women?

by leiascully



Series: Five Times Kara Thrace Kissed A Girl And Liked It [4]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Community: smut_tuesdays, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-16
Updated: 2008-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have the same dream every night for a month.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do pilots dream of electric women?

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: S2  
> A/N: Happy [**smut_tuesdays**](http://community.livejournal.com/smut_tuesdays/). There is no excuse. Only the hotness. Apologies to Philip K. Dick for stealing his title!  
> Disclaimer: _Battlestar Galactica_ and all related characters belong to Ronald Moore, NBC Universal, Sci-Fi Channel, and Sky One. No infringement is intended and no profit is made from this.

You have the same dream every night for a month before you start paying attention. You're in a forest, no shoes on, wearing your tanks and your shorts. The air is cool on your skin, and damp, but not uncomfortable. You stand there not knowing what to do with yourself; you're tense but not nervous, and there doesn't seem to be anyone around. You've been in this forest before. It's where you met Sam on Caprica.

All at once, you glimpse someone coming through the trees: a shaft of light, you think at first, but no, it's a woman. One of the Cylons, you realize, and you stiffen. It's the blonde one, the one you nearly sliced with the arrow, who broke your fall and her own neck. A Six. She's wearing a white coat and tan boots and her hair gleams like snow. She has a sinuous way of moving that half-hypnotizes you; you don't move as she approaches, except to shift from bare foot to bare foot. At least she's alone, not that that means much when she's a weapon all by herself.

"Are you alive?" she says.

"Are you?" you counter.

She laughs softly and grins at you. Even the way she smiles has that same slow eerie grace. You're wary and captivated all at once. "You are a fighter, Kara Thrace," she says, and slides her hand up the back of your neck. Before you can pull away, she's kissing you, only her lips and her fingers touching you, but the pressure of both so strong that you feel like she's pinned you down. You kiss back. You can't help kissing back. She has you well and truly caught, so strong she feels like destiny. Her teeth click against yours as she smiles against your mouth.

You're panting a little when she draws away. "So? Am I alive?"

"You're more than alive," she says. Her voice is a seashell: it curls in on itself, all around until you're lost in the smoothness of it, and you'd swear you can hear the ocean, but it's just the wind in the branches. "You're fascinating." She circles you, predatory, and you stand your ground as pine needles prickle the soles of your feet. "I can see why the Twos are so charmed."

"Glad I pass muster," you snap, slouching into an ironic parade rest.

"Don't flatter yourself," she says, dragging her fingertips across the small of your back. "There's room for improvement." You grab her chin as she brings her face close and twist her mouth to yours, knocking your jaw against hers. She kisses you back, again just the pressure of her lips and the five points of her fingertips holding you hard in place. You lean into her as far as you can. You've always met force with force and there's no reason to stop now, not when her lips burn against yours and you might as well be damned, the way, you remember, you have been every night for the last thirty lonely nights, waiting to be seduced by this dream of the machine who killed your entire race.

She releases you abruptly. You wobble but don't fall. "That was dangerous," she says, with just enough of a serrated edge to her voice to make you remember that she could snap your neck with the same gesture, if she wanted. You think of the ocean again, the beauty of it and the immensity, the depths that have swallowed more bones than the black has. When she grins, you flinch and then straighten. The pine needles are slippery under your feet. She takes a few paces back, steady despite the stiletto heels on her suede boots. You wonder if that's some toaster talent, or if she just just wears them enough to be at home in them, the way you feel out of place sometimes without the stick of your Viper in your hand. Six smirks at you, her teeth and her hair and her coat all startlingly white in the green and brown of the forest. Gods, you feel macho facing her, with the ends of your hair just brushing your neck and your shoulders square under the straps of your tanks. Her hair is all tendrils and waves, and the cut of her coat emphasizes the swell of hip and breast underneath. You want to see her, how she's made; Sharon never had rivets, but Sharon didn't know. Maybe Six is different.

She brings her hands to the neck of her coat, so godsdamned poised it almost makes you angry - she's a machine, but she's playing a woman better than you do, or making it look easier - but then she undoes the first button and you forget to be angry. She bites her lip, and the mischief and grace of her has you hypnotized again. Shadows wash across her white throat as the wind tosses the branches of the trees around. She undoes the second button and you begin to realize that the coat is all she's wearing. It seems warmer, suddenly, or maybe it's just that the sun has finally broken through the trees.

Six has the power to break your back, but all she seems to want to do is turn your head. She's looking at you under her lashes like you're the one who stays or goes. Her hands are slow on her buttons, sliding down her front until you can't tell if she's teasing you or shy or both. It makes you want to laugh, that _she's_ courting _you_ when you're the one without steel in your bones, or whatever it is that makes her different from you. You can't tell by looking, that's certain, because her coat is open now and gods, she's built along the same lines, but she's sleek as a Mark VII. Her skin has a peach tinge against the pure white of her coat, and her nipples are rosy. She's a real blonde, you think, and almost laugh, because sure, she was engineered that way and gods, it's a dream, there's no reason to resist, and you're wired to blow after so long with only the dream.

"This is a dream," you say out loud.

"We would call it a projection," she says, dropping her eyes like a schoolgirl.

"Call it whatever you want, honey, it all comes down to the fact that we're both waking up alone tomorrow. There's no effect for this cause. Frak me or flay me, there's no consequence."

"There is not action without consequence," she says, all religious and passionate, and if she wants to be a holy flame, well, you'll let her set you alight too.

"And it harm none, do as ye will," you say in your most sacriligious tones. Aphrodite will forgive you. "Unless you like it rough."

Six narrows her eyes at you and you tip your head back, surrendering or beckoning her, you're not sure, but she comes to you, and you slide your arms under her coat. Her skin is just as satiny as the lining, and when you kiss her neck, she lets out a sigh that's almost a whimper and you shiver at how real she feels.

There's something to be said for Cylon innovation and efficiency: she strips you out of your clothes and drops her coat on the ground and you on top of it, so that you're lying in the sweet silky warmth where her body was, with her perfume rising up around you mingled with the scent of crushed pine needles. The length of her body is stretched out over yours and she's smooth, a perfect model of a woman, her satin skin and her bones nudging through and the suede of her boots rubbing between your calves. She's kissing your throat, nipping at you only hard enough to pinch, not hard enough to hurt, and your hands are all over her. For a fake, she's amazing: soft in all the right places, wet in all the right places, and under your tongue, her skin tastes like skin, salt and flesh. You slide two fingers into her, just to hear her moan. She nuzzles into your neck and pushes into you so that her wrist notches against yours and you groan at the way your tendons strain against her bones, the tension redoubling your need. Her fingers are unerring; she finds the spot that makes your back arch and your head snap back, and you're pressing up against her body, against the architecture of her ribs, and gods, who made her that she's this way, bones sprung like the arches of a temple and still more of a force of nature than anyone you've known. She takes the breath out of you; you're gasping under her, pinned by her weight and her strength and your desire, but you twist your fingers, thrusting frantically, and the blood comes into her cheeks and she's whimpering like she's about to come apart at the seams, if she has seams. You wrap your arm around her, holding her hard to you as you frak her, and swear at the top of your lungs when she burns you, actually frakking burns you, an angry sear across your wrist, and the dream dissolves.

You wake up in your rack, clutching your arm, sweaty and rumpled, and frak if there isn't a blister there that you're never going to be able to explain. You turn over, that post-sex ache from belly to knees, and press your wrist against the cool metal of the bulkhead. Maybe now you'll sleep in peace, or maybe you'll keep dreaming of electric women. You whisper a prayer to Aphrodite, not even sure what you're asking, just a supplicant come to the altar of the body, waiting for dreams to catch you.


End file.
